Only We Know (14 page)

‘The office is quiet at the
moment,’ Ken says.

‘That’s good, I
suppose.’

‘Yes. A welcome respite.’

She doesn’t look at him but can tell
from his pensiveness, his very presence in this room as she dresses instead of reading
the paper downstairs or playing table-tennis with the boys, that there is something on
his mind; that his early appearance has little to do with a lull at the office and is
about something else entirely. The silence sits between them, like a scab begging to be
picked. She dresses quickly, furtively almost, self-conscious in front of her
husband.

‘Did you talk to Helen?’

His tone is measured and she can tell he has
chosen his words carefully.

‘Not yet,’ she says, conscious
of the tension that has sprung up between them. The low hum of unease from
their row the night before seems amplified
and very present within the room.

‘Look, I’m sorry about last
night,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper like
that.’

‘Me too.’

‘I just want things to get back to
normal around here,’ he continues.

She turns back to the dresser and fumbles in
her jewellery box for a necklace to wear. ‘I just feel sorry for Helen,
that’s all. It’ll be hard on her, going back.’

He looks at her, saying nothing and
waits.

‘I’m sorry, Ken. I know you
think it’s best, but I just can’t help feeling awful at the thought of her
returning to that stifling life in a small town, trapped within a dying
marriage.’

‘What’s the alternative,
Sally?’

‘She could get a job.’

He’s thrown by this. ‘A job?
What do you mean a job?’

‘So that she can pay her
way.’

His eyes widen. ‘
Here?
She
wants to get a job in Nairobi?’

‘Yes,’ she answers, a little
cowed now by his reaction. Confronted by her husband’s evident shock, which
suggests how ridiculous he thinks the suggestion is, a trickle of doubt assails her. She
turns to clip on her earrings, hoping to mask the indecision that is visible on her
face.

‘Sally, that’s ridiculous! You
can’t seriously be suggesting that they continue to live with us?’

‘Why not?’ she asks, shrugging
her shoulders in a show of nonchalance, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

‘For a whole host of reasons! For a
start, she has a home
of her own but, quite
apart from that, I don’t want to share mine, my family – my
wife
– with
that woman.’

‘You were the one who said she should
come out here –’

‘No, no! Hang on a second! I said she
could
come out here, if that was what she needed to do. But I never said
“should”. And I certainly never meant her to stay indefinitely. Two or three
weeks, fine. But, Christ, they’ve been here over two months! Enough is enough,
Sally!’

He gets to his feet as he says this,
bringing his empty glass down firmly on the dresser, so firmly that she flinches. Hands
on his hips, he assesses her and she can see the workings of his jaw beneath his cheek,
the grinding of teeth a flag to his emotion, and knows she can’t push him too
far.

‘Besides, she can’t stay here
because we’ll be leaving ourselves soon enough. Won’t we, Sally?’

Something within her – the spark of
recklessness that ignited her confession to Jim that afternoon – pushes her to say:
‘Are you giving me an ultimatum? Is that what you’re doing,
Kenneth?’

The two of them, facing one another, the air
between them charged with all the tension and fury that have built up over the weeks and
months that preceded this hot summer.

‘She’s got to go home,’ he
says quietly. ‘And if you won’t tell her, I will.’

With that, he pushes past her, out of the
door, his feet descending the staircase heavy and ponderous.

Turning away, she finishes dressing, in her
mind their argument running on, formulating phrases laden with self-righteous
indignation that she flings at him in her
imagination. It continues in her head as she leaves the
bedroom and shuts the door behind her. Downstairs she can hear Helen’s voice, a
rising tinkle of laughter, and pictures the two of them standing there with pre-dinner
drinks, Helen laughing at some joke Ken has made, no idea of the dark thoughts he is
entertaining.

As she reaches the top of the staircase,
something catches her eye – movement behind a half-closed door. She goes to it now,
opening it wide to see Nicky and Katie hovering above the bathroom basin. Their faces
when they turn to her seem furtive and closed in a way that makes her step into the
room, her voice brisk and hard as she asks them: ‘What are you doing?’

Straight away, they pull their hands behind
their backs, Nicky lowering his eyes, but Katie meets Sally’s full-on, her
expression flat but there is daring in it too.

‘Hold out your hands,’ Sally
tells them, a pinch of alarm coming on as she witnesses their hesitation, the slight
inclination of Nicky’s head as he glances at the girl, seeking her permission.
That look inflames Sally, so that she reaches behind his back and grabs hold of his arm,
bringing it forward. Despite herself, she gives a small cry of shock.

His hand is full of blood. Beneath the
wetness, she can see the gash – an ugly line amid the creases and folds of his palm.

She doesn’t ask how it happened,
doesn’t say anything at all. Reaching for Katie’s hand, she tries to
suppress her alarm at the matching wound, the trickle of blood running over the
girl’s wrist. This child is a guest in my home, she thinks, feeling a stab of
guilt.

Hunkering down in
front of them, she feels her heart beating so hard it must be audible. She looks from
one hand to the other and, from the corner of her eye, sees the open penknife balanced
on the edge of the basin, a smear of blood on the ceramic.

‘Whose idea was this?’ she asks,
her voice low and barely controlled. ‘Whose?’

The question is pointless. The pact they
have formed – she can guess whose idea it was. The question she should be asking is:
Why?

‘Mine,’ Nicky says quickly, the
word coming out in a rush, and from the way Katie glances at him sharply, Sally knows it
isn’t true. As she watches her younger son take the blame – volunteer for it – the
small act of chivalry breaks her heart a little.

‘You shouldn’t have done
this,’ she whispers, feeling herself coming close to the brink again. ‘You
might need stitches.’

‘It doesn’t hurt,’ Katie
says stoically. ‘Not really.’

But her eyes are smarting with tears and
Sally finds herself letting go of the child’s hand and reaching up to touch her
cheek – the only tender gesture she has made to her since her arrival.

The children are silent as she washes their
wounds, wincing as the cold water runs into their palms.

‘Wait there,’ she instructs
them, as she goes to her room for the first-aid box.

When she returns, they are standing together
with their backs to her, Nicky leaning against Katie, in their shorts and T-shirts, feet
bare on the cool tiled floor. Something about the way they stand together – how
small and vulnerable they look – makes her
stop short, holding her breath. Katie has her arm around Nicky’s shoulders as if
comforting him. Sally, entering the room, disturbs them, and when her son turns to face
her, his eyes are swimming with tears.

‘What is it, love?’ she asks
tenderly. ‘Is it very sore?’

‘Luke says you’re sending her
away.’

‘What?’

‘Katie. He says you’ll make her
go. I don’t want her to go,’ he says, his face contorting with emotion, so
that she draws him to her, whispering words of comfort into his hair.

It’s not until a few minutes later,
not until she has left the children alone with their bandaged hands to change for
dinner, when she reaches the bottom of the stairs that Sally feels it.

In the hallway, she hears Jamil singing in
the kitchen, and through the open door, she can hear the starlings flapping restlessly
in their cage on the veranda. From the next room comes the low murmur of Ken’s
voice and the tinkle of Helen’s laughter, and Sally feels the steel entering her
heart, tastes it on her tongue. She knows now what will happen: she will join them in
the living room and, calmly but firmly, she will tell her friend that they will go to
the Masai Mara – a final trip – and afterwards Helen and Katie must go back to Ireland.
Ken has given her an ultimatum, but that is not why she does it. She sees in her
mind’s eye the knife on the basin, the blood, her son’s whimpering body, and
feels a shudder go through her. The bond between the children, intimate, too close,
sealed now with blood, hardens her
heart to
any possible protests. The decision has been made. Ready now, she puts her hand to the
door, pushes it, and the others turn to greet her.

The day I found out about Luke’s
death, I stopped drinking. It wasn’t a conscious decision, not really. I
didn’t suddenly decide to flip over a new leaf. It was more a feeling that rose up
from my gut, a deep revulsion with myself and with what had happened, so dark and
intense that I could hardly stand my own company. Something had to change.

Three weeks of sobriety have passed without
much strain, but now, sitting in the airport lounge with Reilly, nursing a cup of
coffee, I feel the fear inside me and with it the nudge of longing for a drink.

‘Penny for them,’ Reilly says
gently.

I look up at him, see his chin resting on
his hand, a thumb meditatively stroking his bearded jaw, a furrow of concern between his
eyes as he watches me carefully. He had picked me up when dawn had barely broken over
the city and driven me to the airport, insisting on keeping me company. Here, in this
bustling, transient place, there is a firmness about him – a solidity – which makes me
feel safe, but a bit panicky too. In a few moments, I will have to leave and Reilly will
stay, and this makes me feel uncertain.

‘I’m wondering why I’m
here, Reilly – why I’m about to get on this plane.’

‘Because he wanted you to,’ he
says.

‘That’s
what’s bothering me,’ I say, leaning in closer to him. ‘Why did Luke
want me to come?’

‘You must have meant something to
him,’ Reilly suggests.

‘But that’s just it. Including
me in this group of intimates suggests a closeness between us that no longer exists. And
why Kenya? It just doesn’t stack up. His whole adult life, he never went back, yet
he wants to be laid to rest there?’

I bite my lip, my eyes darting around. I
can’t seem to shake the twitchiness I’ve been feeling ever since I got the
phone call asking me to attend the event – one of a very small and select group of
people that Luke requested be present when his ashes were scattered on the wind.

‘Christ, what must his wife
think?’ I run a hand over my eyes and, in the lidded darkness, I see Julia
Yates’s face, her eyes level and examining that day in her house when she gave me
the picture. I’ve brought it with me, tucked inside my handbag, and now, on a
whim, I take it out and pass it to Reilly. ‘Julia Yates gave this to me. She found
it on his desk the morning he went missing.’

His eyes travel over it, taking it in: Luke,
Nick and I, sitting in the African sun.

‘Look at you,’ he says quietly,
‘before you were corrupted.’

‘That was a hell of a long time
ago,’ I say drily.

‘Ah, now, none of that. Fishing for
compliments about your age.’

He turns it over in his hand, peers at the
back, then slides it across the table to me. ‘Do you think it’s
significant?’

‘Something
happened. Back when we were kids … something happened and now I wonder, I can’t
help but think that …’

My eyes fill, the room a blur, and his hand
is on mine, steadying me. I hear his voice telling me that I need to calm myself, that
there is no point second-guessing why the man killed himself, that people carry around
inside them all sorts of secrets, all sorts of pain, and that no good ever came of that
kind of soul-searching. But all the time he is talking, I keep thinking of the little
bird, and the shadow of something else: a cage on a veranda, the fluttering of
wings.

‘The last thing you need right
now,’ Reilly says, ‘is to spiral off into some kind of introspective
self-examination of some long-forgotten childhood act that means nothing to anyone but
you, probably. Do you hear me, Katie?’

I feel the wisdom in his words, tenderness
too. If only it were true.

‘What are you doing here,
Reilly?’ I ask. ‘Why are you being so kind to me?’

His hand, still on mine, feels suddenly
heavy, and something changes in the air between us.

‘Because I care, Katie.’

He says it awkwardly, then withdraws his
hand.

Across from us, a little girl sits with her
mother, swinging her legs and staring right at me. The mother is peering into a
hand-held mirror and dabbing at her cheeks with a little sponge. Where is the father? I
wonder.